I SPLASH MY FACE with water, cooled in the basin and fresh on my skin. My eyes in the glass are unnaturally bright. But it doesn’t matter anymore what my cousins think of my temper—I have proof that my brother was murdered, and finally they must listen.
I slip off my waterlogged boots and set them before the fireplace, then step into the black pair I wore to yesterday’s funeral. My fingers are cold and stiff, fumbling with the tiny patent buttons. Around me the house bustles with the same sparkling energy that preceded the ball, as if nothing’s changed between that night and this. Clutching the paintbrush in my hands, chapped from hours spent traipsing through the woods, I imagine their faces when I finally show them. Realization, followed by slow horror. A messenger will be dispatched to the magistrate, and McAllister will be dragged in for questioning.
I find Grace in an alcove near to the servants’ quarters, interrogating a tiny redheaded serving boy. She takes one look at my avid, windburned face and dismisses him. He throws me a look of gratitude and scampers away.
“Katherine, good Lord,” Grace says nervously. “You look a fright—please tell me you haven’t been out in this bad weather.”
“Grace,” I say.
“Oh, my dear,” she presses on. “Look at your poor hands!” My hands were almost delicate after three weeks under her tutelage, but now they’re red and scored with scratches. “Did your mutt do this?”
“Grace,” I say again, more loudly. “Let me speak. The hunt cannot go on—you and Henry must call it off immediately.”
She looks at me blankly for a moment, then with dawning embarrassment. “Oh, I see,” she says faintly. “I understand the timing seems a bit … Certainly we are heartbroken about George, but this hunt is annual, and planned very far in advance. Many have come from quite far, and—Oh!”
She gasps a bit as I hold out the paintbrush. “What is this?” she asks with puckered distaste.
“My brother’s paintbrush, Grace. I went to the hill where he was painting just before he was killed—killed, Grace. And this paintbrush was there, on the ground, and you can see that it’s covered with blood. There was blood in the snow, George’s blood, and now you must, you must see that my brother’s death was not an accident.”
I say this with a kind of desperate triumph, but her face does not change. After a silent moment inspecting my face, then the brush, then back again, she says, “Blood, Katherine, or paint?”
“Good God, Grace! Are you not hearing me? I found this in the very spot where my brother was at work before he died—is this not worth investigating, at the very least?”
A step in the hallway, and Henry rounds the corner, his face concerned. “Katherine, why are you raising your voice? Has something happened?”
“Yes, something has happened. My brother has been killed, and I’m very close to proving it!” With a shaking hand, I place the paintbrush carefully on a small side table. Henry leans forward from the waist to inspect it; when he gets close enough to see the blood, his face blanches.
“What is this, Katherine? Where did you get it?”
“This is my brother’s blood, on his paintbrush. I found the place where he was painting just before he died, and this was buried in the snow. Stella found it, really. And the old poacher, Mr. McAllister, came upon me there—what are the chances that he would be at the very spot? He knows something, Henry—something he doesn’t want to say.”
Henry’s voice is low, angry, but perfectly controlled, and I have a flash of how he must have been on the battlefield. “That man has been wandering the estate unheeded long enough. Your grandfather always showed him leniency, but I’m through following his example. What exactly did he say to you?”
“He didn’t say much—but he’s dangerous, I’m sure of it. Please, come with me into the woods, and we can find the spot again. We must send for Mr. Dowling and show him what I’ve found!”
“Katherine, you look terrible.” Grace says this with unexpected steel in her voice. “It is up to me to preserve the health of the last remaining Randolph, and I am going to do so whether you will respect me or not.”
I want to cry with frustration. “The cold is broken, and the snow will melt! If we don’t look now, the blood will be gone.”
She waves my words aside. “It’s only the blood of a rabbit, or some other wild thing. Your brother drowned, Katherine. You mustn’t drive yourself mad.”
“It’s very likely that McAllister killed one of our animals there,” says Henry furiously. “If the man doesn’t end up in leg irons, it won’t be for my lack of trying.”
“No, no,” I say. “It was the very spot—the very spot where George stood! I used the painting to find the way!”
Grace and Henry exchange an uneasy look; I realize I sound hysterical. “What painting?” Henry says doubtfully.
“I lost it on the way back; it fell from my cloak.” I spin toward the door so fast my head aches. “But I can prove it to you,” I cry, speeding out of the room. “Come with me!”
My cousins quickly flank me, Grace glancing nervously behind. When Henry tries to catch my arm, I brush him off. I lead them up the grand staircase, then race toward George’s room. When I catch a glimpse of myself in a hallway mirror my face is a ghostly oval, my eyes etched with shadows. I kick at the muddy hem of my dress with every step.
With grim certainty I throw open the door to George’s sitting room.
The easel stands in the center of the room, as ever. But the empty frame is gone. I stare at the space where it stood just hours ago. Pressing my palms to my eyes, I feel as if I’m falling.
“Perhaps your brother sent the painting on to London before his accident,” Grace says, breathing hard and pressing a hand into her side. She speaks gently, as though loud noises will make me snap.
“Can’t you see?” I say wildly. “Someone has done this. Someone is doing this to me.”
“Keep your voice down,” Grace whispers sharply as two servants carrying rolled bedding pass the door.
Henry places a careful hand on my shoulder, and I twist away. Then a fit of coughing overtakes me, rising with unexpected force from deep within my chest. On its heels I feel a wave of bone-deep weariness.
“I’ll have someone bring you something hot to drink,” Grace says with renewed vigor, back on terms she understands. “I’ll do so right away.”
Nobody believes me. Even with proof in my hand, my cousins push my concerns aside. I feel like I’m screaming in a crowded room, and nobody even notices. Henry places a hand on my arm and gently guides me back to my own chambers. When I’m sitting, he squats awkwardly in front of the fire with a bellows, bringing the flames back up to warm me. “I will go to the spot, Katherine,” he says, his back still to me. “Just describe the place, and I will find it. If I see anything worrying, I’ll get the magistrate’s opinion on the matter.”
“Thank you,” I say dully. I know nothing will come of his promise. He’s just as fearful as Grace, just as unwilling to accept that something so terrible could happen at Walthingham Hall.
The faint patter of melting snow outside my window makes my skin crawl. With every drop I envision the evidence melting away into mud. I realize I left the paintbrush on the table downstairs, but it hardly seems to matter now. I know that it will be gone when I return, spirited away by a servant who will take the stains on the handle for paint.
Elsie comes in carrying a tray of toast and a hot milk posset. Though she tsks at me to let it cool, I take hot gulps, welcoming the sear of heat in my chest. Henry stands aside while she serves me, inspecting the combs and effects arrayed on my dressing table with polite indifference. Even though he shares a home with Grace, he’s an old bachelor, and a soldier to boot—he seems unused to being around a woman’s things.
Finally, Elsie retreats, but Henry stays on. “Bucked up, Katherine?” he says with strained heartiness, his concerned eyes trained on mine. When I don’t answer, he takes a seat beside me.
“I don’t know where McAllister is staying these days—the old lodge must be too drafty now for even an old hound like him to squat in.” He holds his hands to the fire, his face stony. “But I’ll catch him out. He won’t threaten you again. And he won’t humiliate me, not with the shoot about to begin.”
“Henry, please.” My voice sounds faraway, and I wonder if Elsie put some drowsy-making herb in my milk. “Don’t talk to me of hunting now—how can you even think of it? How can it not be a disgrace to our house, to forget my brother so soon?”
The face he turns toward me is contrite. “I understand you must think us cold, Katherine. Your loss comes so quickly on the heels of mine—of ours. My uncle, your grandfather: He raised me after my own father died.” His face twists a moment, like he’s tasted something bitter. “My father was dissolute, a drinker, but your grandfather taught me how to be a man. A public man. Our lives are not entirely our own, living on display as we do. We must lose ourselves in routine, and so lose our grief. And if we give our neighbors less reason to gossip, so much the better.”
“Is the hunt so important?” I ask wearily.
He shrugs slightly, staring at the fire. “Not the hunt, but what it stands for. For Walthingham Hall and its decades of tradition. For strength in the face of terrible adversity. For soldiering on when you want only to give up.”
I’m tired, too tired to argue. I let my head drop back onto my chair. “I understand, Henry. Just, please, let me sleep now.”
As he stands and softly exits the room, I’m already drifting away.
The light when I wake slants low through the windows. My head is still fuzzy, but I finally feel as if I could eat. Under a covered tray on the table near the fire I find two hard-cooked eggs, a roll, still warm, and stewed rabbit in dark gravy. My stomach turns at the sight of the meat, but I keep the rest of it down.
With one hand to my aching head, I write a note to Jane, asking her to come see me before the shoot. I would feel guilty, asking her again to tend to me in my mourning, but I know she’ll welcome the chance to see Henry.
Soon Grace comes in, and I see her relief that my wild mood has calmed into mere wretchedness. She reads over the note before folding it and sending it off with a footman; I know its mundane contents must comfort her.
While she does so, I move to the window to gaze out onto the grounds. Twilight hovers like purple haze over the tree line. The snow has all but melted away.